Yuletide Yesteryears
by W. Y. Traveller
Summary: Responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's SH 2019 December Calendar Challenge. Prompt 31: Anew. (Very) belatedly picking up where I left off.
1. Angels

_A/N: Responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's SH December Calendar Challenge. _

_Prompt 01: From Domina Temporis – Angels._

* * *

**Angels Fall First**

* * *

As he gazes at the patch of freshly dug earth, Watson is contemplating the fragility of life.

The irrelevant cocoon of muscle and bone means naught when someone lies in wait to prey on the vulnerable organs beneath, as poor Jerome McArthur was unfortunate enough to find out. There is no headstone yet to mark the young man's life, a simple wooden cross stuck at an angle in the damp soil, drunkenly indicating the body lying beneath.

"Funeral was yesterday," says the man standing to Watson's left, a kindly vicar who is watching Holmes scour the outside of the cemetery with traces of amusement on his face. They can see Holmes pacing up and down, glimpses of his silhouette darting past the bars.

"I see," Watson murmurs. He is not really paying attention, keeps his gaze on McArthur's plot. His wife is buried no more than ten feet away.

"Murder, I hear," the vicar says. He leans closer to Watson, watches his face carefully.

Watson does not answer, decides to leave the speculation to Holmes to confirm. He has heard the same; it is the question that has brought them both here.

"By his own brother, I hear," the vicar adds, his tone hushed.

Watson has heard this too, reveals nothing in his expression, although he senses the vicar's triumphant gaze. He starts to walk away, heads to the entrance of the cemetery where he saw Holmes disappear. The vicar falls into step behind him.

"Beautiful, is she not?"

For a split second the question catches him off guard, stops him inches from Mary's resting place, a slow turn in his chest. He turns back to see the vicar smiling at him, the wrinkled face staring at something over Watson's shoulder. Watson follows his gaze, curious. His eyes settle on the stone angel that lies in wait at the front of the cemetery, her head bowed in permanent prayer.

On impulse, he is inclined to disagree. A deep crack runs from her left eye to the jaw, a jagged tear. Her right arm is broken at the elbow, a portion of the joint missing. The folded wings are chipped in numerous places, the feathers brittle and incapable of flight. Her mouth is carved downwards, the expression bleak. Bird excrement covers most of the stone, not an inch of her clean. She looks an embodiment of sadness, despair pouring from every cavity.

"I suppose so."

The old reverend chuckles. "You disagree."

Holmes appears before Watson can answer, the creak of the cemetery gate announcing his return. The sun is sinking beyond London, its dull orange rays painting Holmes in unusual warmth as he approaches.

Watson is suddenly reminded of another image. He recalls squinting his eyes against a blazing sun high above Murray's head, blood covering one side of his orderly's face in a grotesque beauty, a saviour as broken as the weeping sentient guarding the church.

He returns the vicar's smile, says, "Not at all," and catches the brief look of confusion on Holmes's face before the detective dismisses their conversation as unimportant.

The angel is burning now, casts a long shadow as the sun sets beyond her reach.

* * *

**End**

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_A/N II: __It is good to be back, friends! Apologies for my delayed start. The writing muse needs stirring from all the inactivity, lol. I look forward to reading everyone's responses to the challenge. You got this!_


	2. Justice

_A/N: Other commitments mean I'm off to a slow start this year, but hopefully the weekend will provide some catching-up time. :-) _

_Prompt 02: From mrspencil – a missing policeman._

* * *

**Justice**

* * *

They are in a tenement somewhere south of Christ Church, where the river water runs particularly dirty and devoid of colour. Not even the shining coin of the full moon makes this part of London look appealing. The building is grimy underfoot, floorboards damp and as soft as raw dough. It leans towards the Thames like an elder with a bad back, decayed and withered.

Holmes is standing near a cracked window in what passes for a living room. His expression is severe. He has not slept for two days.

"This need for delay is beneath you, Jenkins," he says, his words clipped at the edges, tiredness running through him. "A lesser sentence may be in your favour if you reveal Constable Robson's location."

The man tied to the chair in the middle of the room grins crookedly, teeth cracked and missing in places, a few strands of hair clinging to a perspiring head. It has taken fifteen hours to track him down and he is giving nothing away, knows he has the upper hand at this crucial moment.

Inspector Lestrade is stood to Holmes's left, his face pinched. This is the second case he has worked with the detective since they struck up an acquaintance four months ago, and he is exhausted, feels brittle and worn. Lestrade does not think he'll sleep a full night again.

"So you say, Mister 'Olmes," Jenkins wheezes in a voice as thin as cotton, the contempt rolling off him with ease. "But 'is whereabouts ain't my concern."

"You were last seen speaking to Constable Robson the night of the seventeenth," Lestrade informs him. "We have three witnesses that put you in the vicinity he was investigating at the time."

Jenkins looks thoughtful, a soft hum in his throat. "Only three? You certain? Not much for social circles, me."

Lestrade's mouth presses together, his face etched in harsh lines. "I'm growing weary of this reticence, Jenkins. Just tell us where he is."

"You wanting specifics?"

"Tell me," Lestrade demands.

"Can't give specifics," Jenkins murmurs with a shrug. He sighs, leaning back in the chair heavily. "A bad lot, 'im."

"What?" Lestrade asks, exasperated.

"Right bad lot, 'e was."

"You –" Lestrade stops, catches a look on Holmes's face. He sees the rapid flash of realisation, two days' worth of puzzle pieces fixing together inside the man's head. A sick feeling settles in Lestrade's stomach, because suddenly Holmes knows something he does not, something that has absolutely nothing to do with Constable Robson's location.

Jenkins chuckles. "What can I say, Inspector? There ain't no use for bent coppers." He fixes them with watery, bloodshot eyes, a manic grin coming to the surface before his gaze drifts to the window. "'E's the sea's problem now."

* * *

**End**


	3. Unkind Regards

_A/N: Oh look, I stumbled upon my keyboard. Figured I'd use the abundance of free time to attempt to complete the prompts I failed to do in last year's Christmas challenge, due to being poorly. I've made a note of all the remaining prompts and am writing as the muse sees fit, so unfortunately they are in no particular order._

_Prompt 24: From mrspencil – a quiet drink with friends is interrupted._

* * *

**Unkind Regards**

* * *

Watson is sitting in a pub with Lestrade. As is customary in such establishments, they are both gripping sweaty pint glasses, their heads bowed low over a small table, knees almost touching, talking in hushed murmurs. The bar is dark and damp, smells of skin and perspiration, but the air in their corner is tinged with success, two closed cases and the expected arrival of Lestrade's third child to celebrate. Naturally Holmes declined to join them. The two men are teetering on the edge of drunk, bellies full and warm with previous draughts.

"Last call, Doctor?" Lestrade smiles.

Watson stands to gain the attention of the barman. Over the cries and whistles of the other customers, a voice sounds just above his ear.

"John Watson."

Watson turns, eyes slightly wide and brow furrowed at the address of his name. It is usually Doctor John Watson, Doctor Watson or merely Doctor or Watson. Excluding his parents and sibling, only one person addressed him as John without the formal title, and she no longer amongst the living for over fifteen months.

It is this alone that should warn him, but the alcohol makes his thoughts slow, as though wading through muddy rivers to reach a cleaner ocean.

The man who stands in front of him looks wholly carved from brick and mortar, muscles rippling in his crossed forearms like the roll of the sea. His face is stormy, a dark glint in his eye, and he spits with fast contempt, "Pass on my regards to Mr. Holmes."

Warning bells ring out. Watson doesn't have chance to try to place this stranger before the man draws back his fist and punches him in the face. Watson crashes into the table and the legs buckle beneath his weight, sends glasses flying. Blood gushes from his nose, spectacularly red amongst the other colours sparking before his eyes, seeps between his teeth to mingle with the beer taste coating his mouth.

Lestrade is still in his chair, stares down at Watson in abject shock, his near-empty glass halfway to his mouth. In a split second he recovers, drops the pint and stands to his feet.

"What in God's name are you doing?" he yells, but it is too late. The man has gone. The heavy silence descended upon the inn begins to lift, slow murmurs gradually commencing as every person dismisses the event as unimportant and returns to their drinks. No one offers aid, likely because Lestrade carries that air of Scotland Yard authority and Watson is, to their apparent disappointment, fully conscious.

Watson sits up. His head blooms with pain, the words the man spat on a loop in his mind. He isn't quite sure what to make of it, feels oddly disconnected.

Lestrade bends next to Watson, broken glass and wood crunching beneath his boots. He hooks his hands beneath the doctor's arms and hauls him to his feet.

Watson sways, the blood flowing freely from his nose until Lestrade presses a handkerchief to his face, holds it there as he manoeuvres Watson out of the bar.

The musty night air makes Watson feel sick, dirty river water and bad memories mingling into one. Lestrade takes him across the road and sits him on a low wall, swiftly checks for broken bones whilst muttering dark obscenities of Watson's attacker. For a moment Watson is touched deeply at the man's concern, swallows hard as Lestrade's fingertips skim his face. Eventually Lestrade steps back.

"Did you know him?" he asks.

Watson shakes his head immediately, glances at the Inspector over his soiled handkerchief. Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

"He knew you."

"He knew my name," Watson corrects, his voice surprisingly calm. His cheeks burn with pain and mortification, a slow anger turning in his stomach. He is annoyed at himself, can see the man's fist coming at him in slow motion.

Lestrade shoves both hands into his trouser pockets and cuts his gaze away, presses his lips together. He looks as though he wants to say something, but Watson already knows what it is, so it hovers in the silence between them.

"I'll ask the boys to keep watch," the Inspector says after a moment. "Men like him tend to visit the same haunts."

Watson knows as well as Lestrade that it will be a pointless endeavour. They will likely never see the man again. He lowers the handkerchief, feels the blood drying on his face and neck. He dreads to think how he must look. He licks the inside of his mouth, relieved beyond measure his teeth are intact.

Lestrade glances back at him. "Will you tell him?"

"He will know," Watson replies without hesitation.

"What makes you so sure? He will not know what that buffoon said."

Watson shakes his head. He gazes beyond the tavern, where he knows the Thames lies. He can hear the sharp slap of water pushing against concrete. He blinks and sees the man's folded arms, a faded anchor with a snake made of rope coiled around it. Something sparks in his memory, but it is not relevant enough for his mind to want to follow through. Whether vendetta or a threat of something else to follow, he has no doubt Holmes will soon learn of what happened, and it does not necessarily need come from Watson.

Lestrade does not press him further. He rubs his face tiredly, says, "We should go." Gripping Watson's shoulder, he adds with a flicker of amusement, "In future, Doctor, it may be safer to settle our lot with a bottle of whisky and cards."

* * *

**End**

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_A/N II: Stay safe, guys. Drop me a DM if you ever want to catch up over a virtual cuppa. These uncertain times call for warm hugs and brews. x_


	4. Fever

_A/N: There's an issue with the site not showing reviews or enabling replies, however I can see them on my e-mail, so thank you guys. :-)_

_Prompt 10: From Winter Winks 221 – Fever._

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**Fever**

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Watson wakes in his armchair at Baker Street, a glass of whisky in his hand tilted precariously. The sun is setting behind him, drawing low like a final orange curtain. The light seemingly stutters as it reaches Holmes's form, lying upon the sofa. Watson gazes at him, half asleep, and then he shouts, whisky leaping from the glass to slash across the rug.

Holmes is gazing out of the window, a familiar look of content on his features, but his skin is drawn and sagging, pulling downwards as Watson stares. Both of the detective's legs are missing, jagged stumps above where his knees should be. The doctor's heart hammers as rapidly as a fist on a door, yet he's quietly perplexed by the lack of blood. He stands up fast, another cry torn out of him.

Holmes turns to him then. The skin across his forehead is peeling away. Watson sees the bone beneath, clutches the back of his armchair to keep himself upright. His breath comes out rapid and harsh through his nose as he fights the urge to throw up.

Holmes smiles at him, the muscles at his mouth attempting to push upwards as more of his face comes away. He leans forward and pats the empty space on the sofa where his legs should be.

"Do join me, Watson," he says, the words disjointed as his mouth weeps and tears, teeth falling away. He says something else, but Watson cannot hear it, his world twisting as his knees give way.

/-/-/-/

Watson resurfaces to Holmes calling his name, almost hears the pull to reality like ripping cloth. There is a hand on his shoulder, fingers pressing in so deeply it hurts. The sun has disappeared, the burning colours replaced with dull greys as darkness settles in.

The glass is in Watson's hand and the whisky is coating his cuff. His other hand is clutching the arm of the chair so tightly the bones in his fingers creak.

Holmes is stood in front of him, immediately softens his grip on the doctor's shoulder. Watson is staring with wide eyes at the watch chain hanging from Holmes's waistcoat pocket, because he cannot identify peeling skin and bones as those of his friend.

"Watson," Holmes says, and he sounds shockingly normal, no rotting teeth or vocal strain. But Watson has no desire to look, is terrified by what he might find if he does, because Holmes's legs are still absent from this picture, and this time there is blood cascading to the floor.

/-/-/-/

His armchair again. A familiar spot, the right arm loose with threads where Watson's fingers tapped and scraped as he pondered over the written word. It is rocking and swaying in a vast ocean, the water gentle, the sky pastel and clear above him.

To his left lies the smallest island Watson has ever seen, no bigger than the rug at Baker Street. A thin man in ragged clothes is pacing it, kicking up sand, and Watson thinks for a moment it is Holmes in disguise, but the man is waving a knife and muttering to himself, and things connect in Watson's mind with surprising clarity. His side suddenly throbs where that knife cut him.

A voice calls. Watson looks to where land lies ahead and sees Holmes atop a chalky cliff, waving at him.

The man on the island has stopped pacing and shouts foul oaths at Holmes, brandishing his knife as though wielding a sword. He notices Watson floating aimlessly and leers at him, dark eyes bright and manic.

Watson is surprisingly calm. He lowers himself into the blue, blue water and begins to swim, ignoring the cries of the mad man behind him.

/-/-/-/

He next wakes in a hospital bed, _finally_, the light white and dashing as Watson opens his eyes. He groans at the intensity of it. He feels tired and hollow, skin peeled and muscles dug out, but there is a sensation in his lower side where someone has opened him up and placed a knot of pain.

A familiar hand is clutching his shoulder, but as Watson sums up the nerve to look he knows this moment to be real, because Holmes's fingers are bruising as Watson mumbles his name. There is a relieved look on Holmes's face that takes years off him, his skin smooth in the places it should be. Watson stares at him for a long time, licks his lips to bring some moisture back into his mouth.

"I. I swam back," Watson croaks. His throat feels like shipwrecked wood but he hopes Holmes will know what he means. He doesn't need to tell him about the armchair; this fact seems irrelevant.

Holmes searches his face, replies, "I know, my dear fellow," probably just humouring him. His voice is as Watson remembers, deep and clean. It is a glorious sound.

"Where is he?"

Holmes knows immediately who he is referring to, clever man that he is. "He is being detained and will stand trial for attempted murder on Monday. Today is Thursday," Holmes adds helpfully, sensing Watson's next question.

"How did you find him?" Watson asks. He remembers Gilbert running away, _thud thud thud_ of footsteps swiftly disappearing, but Holmes had not followed because at that point red was seeping through Watson's shirt and coat. Both their eyes had locked onto it as though they couldn't quite work out what had happened.

"With a great deal of searching."

Watson nods. He does not need to know more. A gentle silence falls between the two men, Holmes's hand upon his shoulder connecting him to this blissful white reality. Watson can hear the hum of London beyond the high windows of the room, colours pushing through the glass, subtler shades to those that were in his mind.

"You were waiting," Watson murmurs, referring to his dreams, but Holmes's fingers stutter against him and he senses it is perhaps closer to truth than he realises. "I swam the whole way." He smiles, oddly pleased with himself, a sense of victory settling about his chest for keeping himself above water.

Holmes swallows hard, a curious look passing across his features, but Watson is too exhausted to wonder about it. His friend goes to say something, pauses and shakes his head. He loosens his grip, his mouth twitching. There is a storm brewing behind the detective's eyes, and Watson wonders how close he was to losing himself in that ocean.

* * *

**End**

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_A/N II: Yes, I am once again angst-ing the hell out of the doctor, lol._


	5. Hidden Talent

_Prompt 29: From Ennui Enigma – Mrs. Hudson reveals a surprising talent._

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**Hidden Talent**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson is in Baker Street, her fingers deep in dough, the smell of flour and yeast scattering the kitchen, when the bell pull sounds, loud ring echoing repeatedly like a hyperactive fireman clinging to the rope.

She tuts impatiently, removes her hands from the dough and is wiping them on her apron when she hears the door crash open. The wood splinters against the wall like a gunshot, coat stand clattering to the floor.

A startled shout escapes her, heart pounding against her ribs, and she grabs the closest object to hand, rushes out into the hall on instinct.

The man standing in the hallway is tall and lanky with bushy whiskers, his head blocking out what sun was gracing the window above the doorway. He spots her standing there, one hand clutching her apron, and a slow leer spreads over his face.

"This is the residence of Mr. Holmes, yes?" he asks, voice wheezy but the intent clear.

"It is _not_," she snaps, thinking fast, her heart turning over repeatedly. "How dare you barge into my house! I suggest you leave, sir, else I scream for the police."

"Now that wouldn't do, would it?" He starts to walk towards her, his manner almost casual, as though he's a guest she's invited to tea. He studies the fallen coat stand, the several garments that indicates at least one male occupant. "I know the detective lives here, so be a dear and don't make this difficult."

Neither of her tenants are in. If they were she is in no doubt that they'd be running down the stairs right now to valiantly come to her aid. Her hand tightens in her apron.

"I will scream," she warns. The slight quiver in her voice betrays her fears.

The stranger's face contracts into something deformed and ugly as he snarls, and then he is rushing towards her, hands outstretched.

Clearly he is not expecting her to fight back. The loud clang of the pan echoes off the walls, the vibration of metal hitting flesh sending shocks up her arms. The man grunts and crumbles at the first strike, sprawls across the floor, fingers spasming once against the scrubbed hallway tiles before lying still. Mrs. Hudson stares at him, watches the wound on his head open and leak.

For one horrifying moment she thinks she has killed him, but then she notes the thin back rising and falling. She releases the pan with a soft cry, watches as it bounces once and comes to rest against the man's boot. Her knees tremble and it takes courage for her to move and step around his still form, scared of grubby fingers snapping out to circle her ankle, but then the open doorway is there and she's out, into the soft grey evening.

It is good fortune alone that Holmes has returned from visiting a client in Richmond, the familiar tap of his cane heralding his arrival. He is ascending the front steps as she is descending. She near flies into him, manages to grip the railing to stop herself.

"Mrs. Hudson! What it is?"

His eyes are concerned and searching, taking in her pale, frightened appearance, her skin streaked with flour and perspiration, before moving past her to the man lying prostrate in their hallway.

"Oh, thank goodness!" She clutches Holmes's arm, flour fingerprints pressing into the elbow of the detective's neat black coat. Explanations rush out of her before he can speak. Images flash through her head, of long wooden benches and harsh, unforgiving faces wearing white wigs, corrupted stories and that cursed pan with the man's blood conveniently smudged across it. Silly, ridiculous things concocting in her mind, because she knows she's done nothing to implicate herself. She feels sick with worry, can hear her pulse thumping in her ears, prays Holmes takes her word that it was an act of self-defence.

Her tirade comes to a shuddering halt when she sees Holmes's mouth twitch in a smile. His eyes are glinting in that knowing way of his, as though he can see each rapid thought, and suddenly she knows she is okay, she is perfectly safe. The low sun shrouds him in warmth as he grips her trembling fingers. He takes his handkerchief from his coat pocket, carefully wipes the flour from her forehead and cheeks in a rare gesture of tenderness it causes tears to spring to her eyes.

"My dear lady," says Holmes kindly, the affectionate words bringing a lump to her throat. "You are full of remarkable talents."

* * *

**End**

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_A/N II: Oh yes, look no further for a state-of-the-art security system than that of the formidable Mrs. Hudson._


	6. Gift

_Prompt 25: From Winter Winks 221 – a gift most unusual._

* * *

**Gift**

* * *

After years of chasing murderers, blackmailers and aggrieved spouses, each crime scene and scuffle start to look the same. The scent of blood and sweat and clashing flesh smells identical wherever they are, be it within or beyond the city.

In this particular instance, they are near a disused boatyard at the docks. Dawn is stretching, pink shafts of light creeping between wood and steel, cutting the ground and puddles from the night's rain with precision.

Watson is holding up his own surprisingly well against Owen Parker, the man they have been tracking for months now, responsible for the murders of Lord and Lady Denningham, and whom has eluded capture during every pursuit. Arms and fists are flying as either man attempts to gain the upper hand, because Parker has managed to get his gun out and Watson's has not yet left his coat pocket.

Holmes keeps trying to go to the doctor's aid, but Parker's six-foot-four hired bodyguard is frustratingly persistent in keeping the detective at bay. Holmes is breathless from the exertion of holding his footing as the man forces him back.

Things take a sudden turn when Parker aims a dirty kick to Watson's bad leg. The doctor shouts, drops to one knee, teeth gritted. Holmes watches it all as though through frosted glass, sees Parker's arm carve the air as he seeks his target.

Two months, eight days and fourteen hours of chasing, and the moment descends into the blackened full moon barrel of Parker's gun as he takes steady aim, says with determination, "Your gift, Mr. Holmes." He squeezes the trigger and a shot rings out.

It is by sheer luck he misses.

It is unfortunate for Parker's guard, who chooses that precise moment to move, his hands about to circle Holmes's neck. His back takes the brunt of the shot. He cries out and his full, dead weight falls onto the detective. Holmes does not have time to dodge, stumbles and feels empty space behind him. Watson's shout echoes in his ears. There is a sudden plummet of his heart that his body instantly follows, and he crashes into the icy waters of the river.

/-/-/-/

Watson recovers surprisingly fast, his movements almost rehearsed. He scrambles to his feet, whips out his gun and fires two quick shots at Parker, sees the man tumble to the floor, writhing and clutching his leg. Watson picks up Parker's revolver, strikes the man's head with the butt of it for good measure before launching the weapon into the water. Then he is up and running, following the flow of the river as closely to the edge as he dares. The spot where Parker kicked him is agony, but he pushes on, white noise in his ears like rustled cotton.

For nigh on a minute he sees nothing, his heart in his mouth and awful, God awful images going through his head; another funeral, a damn real one this time, staring out into a sea of black-veiled covered faces, sympathetic murmurs like a tide rolling in. He knows if this happens it will wound too deeply to heal, but then he hears the sound of breaking water and there is Holmes, several metres downstream, his friend's hand gripping tightly to the bottom rung of an access ladder that descends into the Thames.

Watson's relief is indescribable. He reaches the ladder as Holmes appears over the top.

The detective is devoid of his coat and the left sleeve of his jacket is torn, the shirt beneath bloodied where something sharp must have caught him. He refuses Watson's help and bends forwards, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

For a moment neither man speaks, the silence broken only by the soft glug and slap of water, their harsh breaths and the odd cough from Holmes.

"Well," says Holmes, his voice hoarse. "An unusual gift it will ever be my misfortune to receive." He looks shockingly out of place, his hair wet and clothes ragged, as though he should be amongst the criminal classes they pursue.

Watson stares at him. He can feel a muscle twitch in his jaw at Holmes's natural disregard of the situation. "Very nearly your last," he replies tersely.

Holmes catches the doctor's disapproving tone. A tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he straightens, pushes the hair back from his forehead. "You need not look so worried, Watson."

Watson thinks there is something wrong with him then, a sudden overwhelming to grab Holmes by his jacket and shake him, but he puts it down to the shock of seeing Holmes in danger, that sickening moment where he just _disappeared_. He knows it will be some time before the image leaves him. Instead he shakes his head in response, knows he's best not saying anything. His chest is hurting a good deal right now, and he doesn't think it is solely from all the running done this night.

* * *

**End**

* * *

_A/N II: As usual I angst the bejeebies out of the prompt, lol. Every time I write a piece with Holmes and Watson my brain seems to go like this: Don't angst the poor doctor. He's been through enough. Let's angst Holmes this time. Yes, good idea, angst Holmes, angst Holmes, angst-ooh, the doctor. Angst doctor. Angstdoctorangstdoctorangstdoctor ... oh, you angst-ed the doctor ... oops. :-p_


	7. Expected the Unexpected

_A/N: Prompt at the end, otherwise I truly am spoiling it from the off, lol._

* * *

**Expected the Unexpected**

* * *

"You may search this house from skirting to rafter, Mr. Holmes," says Lady Weston in slow, clipped tones. "I guarantee my husband is not here."

"Perhaps you should let me reserve judgement on Lord Weston's whereabouts, my lady," Holmes replies.

A heavy silence fills the living room at this statement, broken only by Constable Burton's shifting feet, his movements ceasing when Inspector Lestrade touches a hand to his elbow. Watson is stood beside the fireplace, pencil poised over his notebook, looking very much like a still-life waiting to be painted, the grey sky outside the tall windows casting precise, sharp shadows upon his face, his brows drawn in thought. Holmes is standing behind Lady Weston, hands deep in his trouser pockets, his eyes flitting about the room, connecting pieces no one else can see. There is a small smile on his lips.

The woman shifts uncomfortably, a flush the same colour as the deep red sofa upon which she is sat tinting her cheeks. She turns to glare at Holmes. "I do not know who you think you are–"

"I know very well who I am, _madam_," says Holmes, in a tone similar to hers. "I also pride myself, on occasion, of knowing when someone is lying to me."

"I have not lied, Mr. Holmes," she says with conviction.

"You are rather gifted at it, I shall grant you."

"How dare you!" the lady cries.

Holmes sighs. "I grow weary of this exchange, madam. Please, enlighten us as to your husband's ... shall we say, _compromised_ location," Holmes suggests, though his quick glance at Watson tells them he already knows the answer to this. Watson quirks a brow at him, confused.

"Get out!" she shrieks, leaping from her seat.

At that moment there is a great scraping sound, followed by a loud crash of rubble and iron, a black storm cloud erupting. Watson yells in surprise, jumps away from the fireplace as it spits coal, brick, and the cold, dead body of Lord Weston.

/-/-/

Lestrade and Watson watch as Constable Burton escorts Lady Weston to the waiting carriage. Her husband is taken to another carriage parked nearby, a sheet covering what remaining dignities he is owed.

"She must have had help," Lestrade ventures, watching both carriages with cautious eyes. "How else could she have done it?"

"It should come as no surprise, Lestrade," comes Holmes's voice before Watson can reply. There is a soft crunch of gravel as he joins them on the curved driveway at the front of the house. "A woman scorned can find strength in unlikely places."

"I find it hard to believe she stuffed the poor man up there herself, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade scoffs.

Holmes mouth twitches. He shrugs, glances at Watson. The doctor now looks painted of charcoal, smudges of soot on his face and clothes, deep black patches on the knees of his trousers where he had bent to the body. He is rubbing his handkerchief over the back of his neck, the cloth grimed, his movements somewhat weary. He meets Holmes's gaze and shrugs in turn. No doubt the image of Lord Weston's contorted limbs is at the forefront of his mind.

"Believe what you will, Inspector," Holmes says. He tugs his own handkerchief free, passes it to Watson. "However, in this particular case, I assure you the lady acted alone, though one may question her sensibility in choosing such a peculiar location."

"Question her sensibility?" Lestrade splutters. "I'd question if she has an ounce of that! Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

Watson hums in reply, rubs Holmes's handkerchief across his forehead, creating fresh smudges. He frowns at the cloth as he removes it, as though pondering if he'll ever come clean. "Her state of mind will be called into question come trial, Holmes."

"I am well aware of this, Watson," Holmes says, brushing a larger patch of soot from the doctor's shoulder, "and I'd wager that this particular fact has not escaped the lady's notice. What better way to dodge the gallows than to declare instability of the mind?"

"They'd see through that, surely," Lestrade says, his gaze following the carriage as it pulls away. "Especially if you knew of her intent."

The pale face of Lady Weston is pressed against the carriage window. Her eyes wide are wide through the bars, wisps of hair flying loose from her combs, the very opposite to the neat lady they had been talking to an hour ago. She sees them watching and howls, blackens their names in turn as she is driven down the lengthy drive. Constable Burton is heading towards them, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Well, I am certain you shall inform us of the outcome once she stands trial," says Holmes, extending his hand. "For now, we must part ways, Inspector. I believe Doctor Watson would not object to a little soap and sustenance, so if you no longer require our services we shall bid you good day. We have laid Lord Weston to rest and need not concern ourselves further as to the lady's welfare. This case, gentleman, is closed."

* * *

**End**

* * *

_Prompt 23: From Wordwielder – Chimney._


	8. Reflection

_Prompt 17: From V Tsuion – Mary Watson falls ill._

* * *

**Reflection**

* * *

Watson props his elbow onto the arm of his chair and pushes two fingers against his mouth, gazes thoughtfully into the fire.

The clock tolls the midnight hour. In twenty-seven minutes, it will be the third anniversary of Mary's death.

He wonders if the pain in his chest will lessen by the fourth.

There is a glass of whisky in his left hand. His stomach slowly churns with the contents of two previous beverages. He is not drunk, but there is a hazy quality to the room, as though a heat shimmer has rolled through, and he wonders if he _might_ be. The cold supper Mrs. Hudson brought up to him four hours earlier is still on the table. He cannot bring himself to eat.

The night sky from the window behind him is a perfect shade of black, a seamless abyss that tries to push into the room. The flames are his only illumination that fight it. Watson drains his glass and stands to pour another. He lists only slightly as he walks back to his chair. Small victories.

He and the mantel clock are counting the seconds - _tick tick tick_ \- when Holmes returns at precisely twenty-six minutes past. There is an air of success about him as he sails into the room.

Watson expects a torrent of words to describe what is clearly a triumphant night, and as always he is ready to listen. Yet once Holmes's gaze rests upon Watson's face his expression changes. Holmes's eyes take in the unlit lamps, the whisky glass and Watson's own exhausted appearance. The doctor has not slept for two nights. Holmes need not know this, but Watson suspects he does.

Holmes removes his coat and pours himself a glass, sits in the chair opposite him. Watson feels the detective's gaze as warmly as the flames, feels as though his skin is peeling back to lay bare his heart. The silence starts to press in on him, a rarity in Holmes's company that Watson can only contribute to his weariness.

He does not feel compelled to speak, but hears himself say, "I thought I could ..."

He trails off, because Holmes is still staring at him, his gaze intense in the glow of the fire. Watson sighs heavily, returns his chin to his palm. There does not seem much point in explaining himself, especially to a man who sees explanations on others as clearly as the clothes on their backs, analyses creases and folds like a fortune teller reading palms.

_For all the good it will do_, he thinks, because Mary is not coming back, which occurs to him on every anniversary, and not just the one of her death. Mary's birthday, their wedding day and other memorable occasions Watson would no longer share with his deceased wife.

/-/-/

There were signs. Damn it all if there weren't, a lingering hint that things were not as they should be.

Mary took longer than usual coming to breakfast, until Watson was the first downstairs. She would sip at her tea and complain of tiredness, often pressing delicate fingertips to her temple as though she could rub away the feeling. On occasion, as he was leaving for home visits, Watson would touch the spot gently himself, finding nothing amiss, and she'd smile at him kindly, send him on his way. To reassure them both, Watson observed his wife as he would a patient, also obtained the second opinion of a fellow practitioner. However, apart from bouts of fatigue Mary showed no other symptoms, and both parties concluded it was the inclement weather. Come Spring, they surmised, she would be feeling more herself again.

Several weeks later they attended the Hargreaves' Christmas gathering, and the pinpricks of confusion as to his wife's change in health came crashing together.

Mary's pale face broke into a smile of apologetic refusal when food was carried around by tidy butlers wearing bowties, looking like penguins waddling through the ice blue drawing room of the Hargreaves' home. She seemed reluctant in making conversation or socialising with long acquaintances, one of her favourite pastimes. Watson couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling in his chest.

He touched her arm lightly. "Shall we go?"

"I think it best, dear," she replied, and her honesty shocked him. An unnatural flush had risen in her cheeks. Warning bells shot through Watson's mind. He made his apologies to their hosts and escorted Mary outside.

She collapsed before they reached the awaiting hansom.

Her decline was rapid, the week twisting into a long timeline that Watson stumbled across, an invisible pull taking him from one day to the next. Watson felt the same icy hand from seven months' prior curling about his heart, a familiar sense of helplessness, knowing there was not a single thing he could do to save her.

Fate dealt him the cruellest of hands that year. Looking back, he was surprised he survived it.

/-/-/

He does not realise how tightly he is holding his glass until Holmes stands, plucks it from his grasp and places it on the table beside him. The detective's gaze does not leave his face. A slight tremor runs through Watson and he looks away, brings the fire back into focus.

"I did not." He falters, forces to speak past the lump in his throat. "I fear I should have seen it coming."

There is a paused silence. A log slips in the fire, cracks and settles. Time stretches between them, distorts itself into the hazy shimmer that Watson's vision has become accustomed to.

Holmes exhales deeply, a soft hum escaping him. "Would it have helped?"

Watson is stunned by the words. He looks up at Holmes, the detective stood casually before him with his hands in his pockets. He feels hurt, utmost offended as his profession is seemingly called into question. That Holmes dare imply such, when he was absent throughout Mary's decline, is like an iron brand against the doctor's heart.

He stands quickly and seizes Holmes's arm without thinking, thumb pushing tightly into the crook of Holmes's elbow. He opens his mouth to retort but Holmes has an unreadable expression on his face which makes Watson stop. The whisky burns low in his stomach, makes him feel sick.

Watson says, voice thick with emotion, "That's not–" He cuts himself off with a small frustrated noise.

Holmes continues to stare at him, almost a challenge in his face.

Mortified, he sinks back into his chair. His loosened grip slides down his friend's arm until only his fingertips and thumb are grasping Holmes's shirt cuff, a thin connection to this moment. He sighs and runs his free hand across his face, breathes deep through his nose as he gazes at Holmes. He feels incredibly tired, though not tired enough to know what Holmes is thinking, what Holmes is doing.

"You are incorrigible," Watson tells him.

Holmes smiles, something rare and ethereal in the light of the fire that heals a tiny piece of Watson's heart, and he presses the glass back into Watson's hand.

* * *

**End**


	9. Daring Dramatics

_Prompt 27: From hold-my-coat – "I never can resist a touch of the dramatic."_

* * *

**Daring Dramatics**

* * *

It should come as no surprise to Watson that he is running again. His gun is clutched in one hand, his cane lost to the gutters long ago, and he has no clue as to where he is.

The rain does not help, a strong, steady patter of water that would be soothing had he not more urgent matters to worry about. He is soaked to the core, tremors running through him in stages, vision tainted by a permanent wet veil. The milky curve of moonlight watches him like a curious cat's eye, a slow blink whenever thicker clouds roll in.

He pauses briefly, tries to establish his location, a narrow street with buildings leaning in from both sides, wet stone and cobbles. The lamps burn dim in this part of London, meagre coughs of light pushing through.

He lost his assailant and Holmes somewhere around St. Paul's, each man scattering in opposite directions and shots firing into the night, no choice but to run. The large dome is nowhere in sight, which is reassuring. The farther away he is, the better. He takes a few deep breaths, pushes damp hair from his forehead and continues, walking now, his pace as brisk as his leg allows.

He almost misses the footsteps, a faint echo of his own, swiftly approaching. He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth.

Shoot to kill, he was told, as the man they are pursuing has already done so six times and will not hesitate to add to this toll, nor show mercy.

Watson grips his gun tightly, pivots fast before he can lose his nerve, arm raised in steady aim.

He finds himself staring down the barrel of a revolver, heart-stopping fear twisting his insides and running his blood cold, but then the hand holding the gun shifts. Watson's vision comes into sharp focus, and Holmes is staring him down, an equal look of surprise crossing his features. Watson's own gun is pointing at Holmes, their postures perfectly mirrored. The rain falls between them, a soft rustled curtain of noise.

Watson swallows, immediately loosens his finger on the trigger and lowers his arm.

"Holmes," he breathes, heart jump-starting and surging adrenaline beneath his skin.

Holmes lowers his weapon, schooling his expression into a lesser sense of shock. There is a twitch to his jaw and his brows are drawn in annoyance, though Watson knows this is not aimed at him.

"I never can resist a touch of the dramatic, though our timing leaves much to be desired, Doctor."

Watson tenses, feels the muscles in his shoulders stiffen. "That is not the least bit amusing, Holmes. I could have shot you."

Holmes chuckles, void of any actual humour. "And I you. Let us be grateful you did not, and that I–"

He doesn't finish, eyes catching and pitching wide at something behind Watson's shoulder, an abrupt circle of white surrounding his dark pupils.

Watson doesn't have chance to turn. Holmes suddenly moves, arm up, fires two fast shots that whistle past Watson's ear and sends his pulse racing. He hears the retaliated shot, a shattering of glass above their heads. Watson slips on the wet ground in his haste to move, but then Holmes is clutching his forearm and hauling him closer in the same instant, lets loose another shot. There is a startled cry behind him, a bitten-off oath and a clatter of metal hitting the pavement.

Then silence, broken by the hiss of rain.

Watson waits a moment before he cautiously straightens, turns his head to see the dark figure of a man sprawled some metres away, moaning softly, the moonlight picking up the gun dropped in a shallow puddle of dirty rain water.

Holmes exhales sharply, as though he was holding his breath the entire time. "Apologies, my dear fellow." He lets go of Watson's arm, takes a step back.

Watson shakes his head. "Dramatic tendencies aside, I cannot fault your actions."

"I fear he gave me no choice."

"You didn't kill him." He means it as a reassurance, but Holmes is staring at the man with a curious expression, something hard glinting behind his grey eyes.

"No." Holmes blinks, whatever emotion Watson glimpsed gone, and his gaze returns, scans Watson carefully as the doctor shifts his weight.

Watson sighs, forestalling the question. "Nothing a warm fire and rest will not cure."

Holmes's mouth curves. "Indeed. Then let us hand our charge over to Scotland Yard and return home. I dare say we have had our fill of excitement for one night."

* * *

**End**


	10. Tackle

_A/N: I took artistic license with this one to fit the writing around the prompt, lol, otherwise my brain was coming up empty._

_Prompt 13: From Domina Temporis – Watson teaches Holmes rugby._

* * *

**Tackle**

* * *

"I do not know what you wish me to say, Mr. Holmes. If my son had intended to kill Bill Fenton, he would not share such knowledge with me."

The man they were conversing with, Mr. Hemming, appeared to take up most of the drawing room. He was a short-heighted fellow of considerable weight, his movements slow and struggling. The distance he had covered from sofa to fireplace seemed to take enormous effort, and now he was over there he looked reluctant to return. He addressed the two men with borderline contempt, both hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robe.

Watson glanced at Holmes, sensed the air of foreboding settling upon the room. It did not take a detective to know where this conversation might be headed.

"You do not seem surprised, sir," Holmes observed, a small smile touching his lips.

Streaks of sunlight pushed through the tall windows, lit upon the man to highlight the muscle twitching in his cheek.

"I am _not_ surprised," said Mr. Hemming curtly. "My son is rather impulsive in nature."

Holmes hummed in acknowledgement. "I am certain that you, as his father, would know this fact better than any other person. I am also certain that you knew your son had killed Mr. Fenton and lied to the police to protect him."

The cheek twitched in earnest now. "You cannot prove that."

"Were you innocent in this, Mr. Hemming, no doubt you would do your level best to deter this notion. As it stands, you are only confirming my suspicions."

"Enough! This conversation is at an end, Mr. Holmes." The man's eyes shone with barely contained anger. "You and your companion may leave."

"Oh, may we? That is most kind, sir."

Watson sighed inwardly. He felt the tension like his spine was skeletal rope, bones straightening and pulling taut, anticipating danger. He knew Holmes would not leave it there.

True to form, Holmes took a step closer to the window, peered out quickly before he turned and fixed Mr. Hemming with a keen gaze. "However, I do wish you would enlighten us as to one point."

Mr. Hemming sniffed, his disapproval worn plain. "What?"

"The body of Bill Fenton," said Holmes, eyes studying Hemming's face. "He is here, is he not?"

Hemming's stiffened, rolls of flesh tightening beneath his ill-fitting robe. His hand flew from his pocket, wrist jerking, and he fired the revolver in Holmes's direction.

Watson moved on blind instinct. He threw himself at Holmes as a loud crack reverberated off the high ceiling, arms locked around Holmes's waist. The solid _thwack_ of wood came up to meet them, a sudden jarring of bones that he felt acutely in his side and elbow, the fingers of his left hand going shockingly numb. Holmes let out a grunt of pain beneath him.

Despite his formidable girth, Mr. Hemming had already made it outside. Beyond the glass above their heads, Watson could hear him scuffling with the policemen Lestrade had stationed in the garden. He was yelling, cursing their names in a voice splintered with fury. The Inspector's voice swiftly followed, the clear tones of arrest reaching their ears.

"Clearly he did not like my question," said Holmes. He sounded amused.

Watson immediately took his weight off his friend and pushed himself up on one knee, flexed his fingers experimentally. He gazed at Holmes sharply.

"Clearly you knew he would react in such a manner."

Holmes sat up, touched cautious fingers to the back of his head and winced. Watson feared for a moment he had inflicted a concussion or injury, but the detective's eyes were as clear as water, glinting like sun spots on the ocean. "Perhaps."

"Holmes." Watson heard the sigh in his voice. He expected nothing less of Holmes, though he was not sure it was always worth the gamble, enticing criminals as brazenly as opening a lion's cage. However, he knew it was a useless endeavour to persuade Holmes otherwise, so he said nothing. He stood and offered his hand.

"If it is any reassurance," Holmes began, taking Watson's hand to pull himself to his feet. "I was prepared to move, though I need not have moved at all. Mr. Hemming's reputation for shooting precedes him, in that he is a terribly poor shot." They both glanced at the broken glass in the top pane of the window where the bullet had gone wide and way off mark. "I was not prepared, however, for that impromptu rugby tackle of yours."

Watson flushed, said tightly, "I am not apologising for that."

"I am not asking you to," Holmes replied, smoothing his clothes and rubbing an open palm across his chest. "Though I may consider asking your demonstration upon it. It seems most beneficial for unsuspecting targets."

"Are you hurt?"

"Only if your profession considers a few bruises to qualify as sufficient injury."

Watson smiled ruefully. "No."

"Then let us consider this an invaluable lesson, one of which I will remember for any future discussions with the criminal classes." Holmes returned his smile warmly. "I shall also endeavour to stand clear, should you choose to utilise that tackle again. As much as I appreciate your concern, my dear fellow, I would rather the recipient not be me."

* * *

**End**


	11. Chance Encounter

_A/N: I reckon the Muse has gone somewhere to cool down during this heatwave we're having … can't say I blame it. :-p _

_Prompt 14: From Domina Temporis – Watson meets a famous author._

* * *

**Chance Encounter**

* * *

The evening sun begins to set beyond the city, mottled trails the colour of peaches following its descent.

Watson glimpses the changing sky each time his pen rests. He is sat on a bench facing the calming water of the Serpentine, a draft of the Weston case forming in his notebook, words fast and hurried in his eagerness to commit them to written memory.

It is some time before he notices that a shadow has fallen over the page. A clear voice breaks through the calm, stirs his thoughts like a gentle breeze on sails.

"May I sit here?"

Watson looks up, squints against the sun.

A gentleman in a light grey suit stands before him. He looks to be in his mid to late fifties, with a thick moustache and smooth cheeks. One hand is behind his back, his cane hooked loosely on his forearm. He gestures to the bench the doctor is occupying.

"Of course," Watson replies. He shifts to the farthest side to allow room for the man.

The action is met with a chuckle. "I do not bite."

Watson returns his smile. "I do not doubt it."

The man takes his seat with a contented sigh, tilts his face skyward. "Most kind of you, sir."

Watson inclines his head slightly and continues to write. Occasionally he glances up to see the man gazing at the water. Ducks and rowing boats meander past to disturb the lake's surface. Women clutching pretty parasols glide by as gracefully as swans, slender necks and wrists swathed in silky ribbons, their voices teasing lilts as they lecture the men set to the unfortunate task of rowing in the heat of the waning sun.

"So you are Doctor Watson."

The words take a moment to penetrate Watson's thoughts, and he blinks. The man's tone is soft and curious, as though confirming some unknown suspicion.

"I am," Watson replies, his own voice suddenly cautious. "Do I know you?"

"No, sir, but I know you." The man continues to watch the activity on the water, a small smile on his lips. He adds in a low murmur, "I know you very well."

The statement would usually make Watson tense. Years of association with Holmes did not make his the safest of lifestyles, yet there is nothing hostile in the man's manner, his tone gentle and oddly reminiscent. Watson wonders if he is a previous patient, or someone he knew during his army days. His memory usually serves him well, yet his time in Afghanistan is as impaired as their living room wall Holmes insists firing bullets upon, dark gaps in his past that he cannot recollect or find empty cartridges for. The dull pain in his shoulder is an open wound of memory, Murray's powerful voice the only thread available to stitch it together, and even then his recollection of that day is vague at best.

He catches the man studying him openly and shakes his head, confused. "My apologies, you have the advantage of me."

"That is debatable." The man's eyes twinkle. "You are modest, Doctor Watson. It is little wonder that your readers are taken with you."

"Am I correct in the assumption that you are familiar with my writings?"

The man grins. There is a humour within it only he can see. Watson feels the faintest hint of unease, but senses nothing that indicates danger.

"To an extent, my dear Doctor."

The last three words are spoken with such affection that Watson is taken aback, for he is certain he has never laid eyes on this stranger. The man is gazing at him intensely now, and Watson feels an overwhelming mix of awe and apprehension, steel threads of something long-forgotten wounding about his heart. A feeling of nostalgia nudges beneath his skin, tells Watson he should know this man, should recognise the face looking at him with open fondness, yet try as he might Watson cannot place him.

He swallows, unsure what to say. He is clutching his notebook tightly, fingers pushing creases into the page.

The man cuts his gaze away. "I apologise, Doctor Watson," he says softly. "It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"_Do_ I know you?" Watson asks again, for it is clear the man knows something he does not.

A rue smile touches his lips. "I do not think it possible, even if I were to wish it so."

Watson frowns. "I'm not–"

"Watson!"

His words are interrupted by a familiar voice, and he turns to see Holmes striding towards him.

The odd feeling leaves Watson instantly, the threads snapping. He turns back to address the stranger but the man has gone. Watson quickly searches the length of the Serpentine, spots him some distance away, walking along the water's edge with a slight lean as he observes the ducks, the sun painting his silhouette. He glances in Watson's direction and raises his hand in a gesture of farewell.

Holmes reaches him, follows his gaze. "An acquaintance of yours?"

"I do not know," Watson replies honestly. "I have never seen him before."

"Yet he knew you."

"How can you tell?"

"He looked at you with an expression of familiarity."

"I suppose."

"Most curious," says Holmes, sitting in the spot the man vacated and taking out his cigarette case. "For a stranger to bestow such attention upon another. You are certain you have not seen him before?"

"I don't ..." He hesitates. "No."

Holmes's eyebrow rises. "You seem disturbed, Watson."

"It was ... no, never mind," Watson sighs, accepts the proffered cigarette, grateful Holmes does not press him further. They watch the dwindling sun for several minutes, then Watson says quietly, "Perhaps I knew him in another life."

He expects Holmes to chastise him for the comment, but to his surprise the detective is staring thoughtfully at the water, his eyes softened by the pale evening light.

"Perhaps," he murmurs. He lifts his head and smiles at Watson reassuringly. "If such theories exist, perhaps your paths will cross again, and your companion may be gracious enough to leave his calling card."

* * *

**End**

* * *

_A/N II: This concept has likely been done soooo many times, but an extra one to the tally shouldn't hurt. ;-)_


	12. An Entity Most Improbable

_A/N: This one took some head-scratching, lol._

_Prompt 21: From hold – my – coat: Sherlock Holmes is always insistent that there is always a logical solution. His methods are based on eliminating the impossible until only one possibility remains. But what if none remain? What if Sherlock Holmes stumbled upon a mystery beyond his understanding? What if it was aliens?_

* * *

**An Entity Most Improbable**

* * *

The sky was red, permanent.

No one knew precisely when it had changed, rusted hues pushing below the clouds to settle amongst the rooftops. Gone were the foggy greys and yellows to be replaced by something resembling blood, staining everything in its wake. The smell that had risen and remained in the air was a mix of copper and fear, so vivid it clung to skin and clothes like cement.

Holmes observed the colours pulsing and smudging from the living room window, watched them grow dark. His eye caught a star, an unusually bright dot in the crimson sky. It blinked and began to tumble downward, blazing, and then it was gone. He was unsure what to make of it, yet he had seen stranger sights recently. A hum of adrenaline settled beneath his skin, waited.

He suspected something was bound to shift. He had seen familiar army uniforms patrolling the streets, had watched them dart between buildings. He wondered if Watson would be sent to an unknown war, and his heart sank a little at the thought.

As though sensing his unease, the Doctor walked into the room. Watson's eyes were tired, his shoulders carrying a tension that Holmes had not seen since they took lodgings together. Fear lingered between them, thick as smog and impossibly deep.

"You went out," Watson stated, some disapproval in his tone.

There was little use denying it. "Yes."

Watson gave a soft sigh. "Whilst I cannot stop you, Holmes, it may be best not to venture out alone."

"There is little I can do here." For what small measure of reassurance it provided, he added, "I went in daylight."

"Did you see anything?"

Holmes raised his pipe to his lips. His fingers trembled. "Enough."

"Lestrade?" Watson asked, a slither of hope in his voice, and Holmes felt like the worst kind of criminal when he shook his head, saw Watson's face fall.

"I see."

"He may have sought shelter elsewhere."

Watson nodded, but there was something broken in the movement that tugged at Holmes's chest, a sense of hopelessness snaking across his ribs.

"Holmes, do you think–"

"It matters not what I think," Holmes interrupted, his tone sharper than intended, cracking dangerously. "No man was meant to decipher this." He gestured out the window to the blood-lit sky, the flaming stars, the echo of gunfire that could be heard far beyond the window.

Watson said nothing, simply moved to stand beside him, his presence adding a familiar comfort.

"Forgive me, Watson," Holmes intoned, voice quiet, troubled.

Watson dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "I spoke to Mrs. Hudson," he said. "At first light she is going to travel to her sister's. I will see her to the station myself. If I cannot return tomorrow I will shelter there and return when it is safe to do so."

Holmes did not like the notion, but he would rather that than Mrs. Hudson be alone. He wondered if the weeping sky would follow her to the country, or whether it was already there. Many of the city had been evacuated, children the first to go. He had not seen the Irregulars since the heavens ripped and leaked.

He sighed, weary. "Take extreme caution when you accompany her."

"My revolver should suffice; at least bullets have proven–"

Something crawled past the window, something large and dark and snuffling, distorted limbs appearing in the rusted light. Watson sucked in a sharp breath and made to step back, but Holmes touched a hand to his arm in warning. Watson relaxed instantly, but the fear remained, the muscles taut and quivering beneath Holmes's fingers. Holmes exhaled slowly, waited to see if it would come back, but it was gone.

"That is the fourth one tonight," Holmes whispered.

"What will you do now?" Watson asked.

Holmes shook his head. He did not know, and the reality of this did not rest easy with him. He voiced the words aloud, saw the surprise flash in Watson's eyes, a look which mirrored his own.

Holmes sighed. "At times, I have to wonder if this is no more than drug-addled conjuring, or if I have succumbed to fever."

"What do you mean?"

"_This_." He near spat the word. "This cannot be real, Watson."

Watson was kindly sympathetic. "I am seeing what you are seeing, Holmes, as are most of London."

"I know. But I cannot. I do not understand it." He sighed in frustration, met Watson's searching gaze. "None of it."

Watson gave him the faintest of smiles, a mingle of hope and despair. Holmes had not seen the Doctor smile for the longest time; it gave him courage, a thin thread of reason he wanted to reach out and grab.

"If you believe this to be no more than imagination," Watson said gently, "then perhaps you shall soon wake, my dear fellow, and preferably before I leave with Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes swallowed, found he could not answer. He continued to smoke, concentrated on the smell to burn away the memories of the past day.

Dream or no, this dark, bleeding city before them had been in existence for what felt like an eternity. Time had become hard to distinguish, the sky the permanent colour of dawn or dusk. The sparse appearances of daylight were the only surety, and these growing shorter as winter approached.

Watson shifted beside him, reached for Holmes's free hand and raised it slightly.

Holmes frowned, a familiar skittering feeling beneath his ribs from the last time Watson had tried this. He wanted to tell Watson it was a fruitless endeavour, yet could not bring himself to break the contact. Watson quickly undid his cuff link and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.

The skin was unblemished. Recent events had not given his mind time to focus on additional substances outside his pipe and cigarettes. Watson ran his fingertips from Holmes's palm to the crook of his elbow, left a path of warmth despite the cold, sinking feeling in Holmes's chest. His friend's hand shook and, though impossible, Holmes fancied he could hear and feel Watson's heart through the touch, until he wasn't sure whom the frantic beating belonged to.

"I am sorry, Watson."

Never once had he apologised for _not_ using, proof of how very desperate their situation was.

Watson nodded, what little hope in his eyes flickering away. Holmes saw it leaving him and felt it acutely.

Beyond the glass there was movement, and the fear settled deep once again.

* * *

**End**


	13. Beginnings

_A/N: I've probably written Wiggins to appear and sound older than he is in the canon, however I would hazard a guess that he has a good dose of street smarts and is a very observant young man. :-) _

_Prompt 15: From Book fan girl – Wiggins' best day ever._

* * *

**Beginnings**

* * *

Wiggins has been shadowing the clergyman for some time now, following the bent figure diligently from Kings Cross to the edges of Whitechapel. The bustling station has given way to deserted streets, the pavements tapering into single alleyways with damp, uneven brick pressing in from both sides. Buildings lean and wither like the passing priest, tired and aged.

The man rounds a corner and Wiggins waits a beat before following. There is a dead dog lying in the gutter, fur matted and limbs stiff, but he pays it no heed, pushes quietly ahead.

Why a vicar would wish to be in this part of London is odd, as there are no churches within a half mile radius, but he does not give it much thought. His sole focus is the pocket watch and chain the man is carrying on his person. Wiggins saw it glint in the sinking light like a miniature sun, saw the promise of food if his mother were to pawn it. If the item is in his possession by the close of the day, the time and location expended in pursuing his quarry is of no consequence, and he has no interest in the person whom owns it.

The priest pauses at the mouth of an alley, removes the watch to check it, and Wiggins sees his chance.

He closes the distance between them, shoves hard at the stranger. He is momentarily stunned when the man scarcely stumbles, but Wiggins' fingers are around the watch. He pulls and there is a snap as the chain breaks, links coming loose and striking the ground like golden hail.

Any victory he may feel is short-lived as a hand suddenly snags in the collar of his coat, and he is yanked backwards with considerable force, a bitten-off oath leaving his mouth. Cold fingers touch the back of his neck, curled in the fabric of his shirt. He twists and snarls, tries to break free.

"I believe that belongs to me."

The voice is deep, no wheeze or rasp coating the words as Wiggins expected, and he ceases his struggles. The grip holding his collar is tight and too strong to belong to an old, crippled vicar, yet when he turns his head a weathered face gazes back at him with a look of mild reproach.

He has no desire to be dragged to the nearest patrolling policeman, so he slumps in defeat, returns the watch without comment.

"You are certainly talented at your craft," the man says, a note of approval in his tone.

Wiggins studies him closely, eyes the bushy brows and whiskers with suspicion. He wonders if this man is a performer, like in a theatre or circus, but something about his demeanour does not ring true. "So are you," he responds evenly.

The man's mouth twitches. He releases his grip.

Wiggins places himself out of reach, rough brick at his back as he faces the stranger, but the man simply gazes at him with open curiosity, eyes swiftly running over him. He detects nothing like the revulsion and hostility he is accustomed to. A frown settles across Wiggins' face.

"You're not a real priest, are you?" he asks.

"I am real enough."

"You're not a _priest_ though," he urges.

"You know the answer to that."

"You're no copper either."

"No." The man's mouth twitches again. "Nevertheless, a crime has been committed here."

Wiggins shrugs, shoves both hands into his coat pockets defiantly. "I gave it back, didn't I."

"Indeed. Yet I now find myself in possession of a watch with no chain."

He says nothing, debates whether to make a break for it.

The stranger seems to sense his thoughts and takes a step towards him, one long stride bringing him closer. He is taller now, the hunched back straightened to a figure that towers over him. Wiggins stands his ground, a fight or flight response waiting beneath the surface of his skin.

"Tell me your name," the man orders softly.

"Peter."

"Your _real_ name."

He hesitates, catches the amused gleam in the man's eye as he does so. There is something in the old-looking features that appear trusting, and without knowing why he says on a quick breath, "Wiggins."

The man nods, reaches into his pocket.

Wiggins' stiffens, his blood running cold. One shot and he'll be lying in the gutter with the dead dog, limbs stiffening long before anyone notices his absence. He prepares to run, shoes scuffing the cobbles as he moves, but then the low sun spears the alley and cuts across the man's hand, glints off the coin he has pulled out. Wiggins freezes, confused, because the man is holding the shiny coin out to him, and no one has ever given him anything without their knowledge.

"Well then, young Wiggins, this is for you."

He eyes the coin suspiciously, does not take it. "Why?"

"Because there are ways of obtaining money without stealing," the man states firmly. "If you are willing to assist me, I am willing to help you. Now, and for future occasions which are likely to arise in my profession."

"What do you do?"

"I am a consulting detective, and it would be most advantageous to have someone to observe in places where I cannot, and report their findings back to me."

The coin rests on the outstretched palm like a peace offering. Wiggins touches muddy fingertips to the smooth surface, says quietly, "I can do that."

"I know," is the gentle reply. "I also know that you can take this coin and expend your efforts to ensure our paths do not cross again. However, I shall leave the decision in your more than capable hands."

He looks up, asks curiously, "What's your name, Mister?"

The man smiles at him. "Sherlock Holmes."

Wiggins scoffs. "Your _real_ name."

He does not understand why the man laughs heartily at that.

* * *

**End**


	14. Storm

_A/N: __Probably the shortest one I've written! lol. It amuses me because I seem to have a habit of writing long prompts for these challenges, despite telling myself that short and sweet is perfectly fine also. :-p_

_Prompt 18: From Tsuion – A storm in the form of a letter._

* * *

**Storm**

* * *

The letter was coded, indecipherable swirls and blots of ink that meant naught to anyone but Holmes. He stared at the chaotic writing, committed the words to memory like a tattoo scratching into his skin.

To the average eye, the paper could have been scrawled upon by a child in the throes of mischief, which was clearly how the sender wished for it to appear. To the detective, names and places bled through the pigment of carefully disguised musical notes and words.

His brother had gone to great means to deliver this into his hands, and Holmes briefly considered what this had cost Mycroft, both in monetary and personal circumstances.

It meant enemies were closing in. It meant Watson was in danger. It meant Mary Watson was dead.

Holmes rubbed a hand over his face. Dirty fingertips slid across the bushy whiskers he had been wearing for the past three days. He felt every bit the stranger he portrayed. At times, he had gone weeks without a name.

Yet, even here, he was not out of the storm. The dark, grey clouds that had followed him across mountains and into France remained even on the brightest of days, tainted the bluest of skies. Even here, he would never be safe.

Even here, neither would Watson.

He lifted a candle and burned the letter in his hand, watched the pieces flutter downwards like black snow. A plan slowly formulated in his mind, a brief slither of anticipation skirting up his spine at the prospect of returning home.

/-/-/

A week later, he stepped off a freighter into England, and the clouds rolling in across the ocean dispersed.

But the storm had not weathered in London.

Amidst falling papers and apologies, he saw the darkened sadness in Watson's eyes, felt the pain emanating from his friend like waves of a violent sea. Roaring water sounded in his ears as he recalled a moment when he had wished nothing more than to go to Watson's side.

Even now, three years on, it took all of his strength to turn away.

* * *

**End**


	15. Anew

_Prompt 31: From Wordwielder – Anew._

* * *

**Anew**

* * *

"Is she well, Doctor Watson?" Lady Denver peered at Watson anxiously over the top of her handkerchief, the fabric crumpled tightly in one hand. Her husband stood at her side, hands clasped behind his back, an air of calm on the surface despite his taut posture.

Watson studied the baby he had carefully placed in the cot, all pink flesh and unruly curls the colour of sunlight. He bent to stroke the smooth cheek, warmth against his fingertips. Something tightened in his chest, and he swallowed hard, terribly moved.

When he was certain his voice would not betray him, he said, "She is perfect, Lady Denver. A mild temperature, however this should ease soon."

The Lady dissolved into relieved tears and Lord Denver's shoulders relaxed instantly.

"There now," said Lord Denver gently, touching a hand to his wife's wrist. "Do not fret any longer, my dear." Turning to Watson, he added, "We are indebted to you, Doctor. You must allow my driver to return you home safely."

Watson nodded. He had no desire to attempt to hail a cab, unfamiliar with the area as he was.

Outside, Lord Denver produced a cigarette case. His fingers trembled as he took out a match and struck it, the flame wavering brightly in the dark, but neither man mentioned it. He offered a cigarette to Watson.

"She does not allow me to smoke inside the house," Lord Denver explained. "I am only too happy to oblige, for young Emily's sake." A wry smile touched his lips. "If not my own."

"You have tried to quit, sir?"

"I have. I am not ashamed to say I failed in that regard." He grimaced. "I suppose you shall lecture me on the benefits of a cigarette-free existence?"

"If I were to do so, I should not think it fair to be smoking myself."

"Indeed." Lord Denver chuckled. "I am pleased to have called upon your services tonight, Doctor."

"I am curious as to how you knew of me, Lord Denver," Watson said. "Is there not a local physician residing near here?"

"There is. However, Doctor Foley is getting on in years, and your name came highly recommended."

"May I enquire as to whom from?"

Lord Denver tipped his head to the side, regarded him carefully as he smoked. "You may, though I believe you already know the answer."

Watson fell silent, kept his eyes on the curved driveway. The frost clung to the stones like scattered diamonds, glinting moonlight.

"We were sorry to hear of Mister Holmes's passing." Denver's voice was quiet, openly apologetic.

The tightness returned to Watson's chest, thin threads of pain looping around his ribs. They felt fragile, splintered bones he had been carrying for over two years.

"Lady Denver and I met Mister Holmes after we were wed," Lord Denver continued. "We first approached him as clients."

That Holmes had a life before Watson stepped into it did not surprise the doctor, but he had no recollection of the name Denver, nor did he recall Holmes once mentioning this couple.

Lord Denver seemed to sense his thoughts. He dropped his cigarette, crunched it gently beneath his boot, and straightened, smiling softly at Watson. "He would not have mentioned us, Doctor, as this was prior to your acquaintance with him. The matter was of a delicate nature, and we insisted on upmost discretion. Some years after, our paths crossed with that of Mister Holmes, and my wife was keen to exchange pleasantries. From your expression, I see we were wise to have placed our trust in him." The man offered his hand, still trembling, but Watson knew this was now from the cold. "And from tonight, I see why he would place your regard most highly."

Watson couldn't trust himself to speak. He shook the proffered hand, feeling a similar warmth from earlier tinge his fingers.

/-/-/

He returned home to the ghostly smell of tobacco and life, of freshly washed skin and a meek attempt at warmth. Brandy in hand, the phantom scents followed him as he ascended the stairs.

The nursery stood at the end of the hall, the locked door black and ominous, the key hanging like a dark secret. The hinges creaked loudly as he entered the room.

The curtains were pulled back, moonlight picking out the empty cot beneath the window. Shadows touched the floor, dusty prison bars. A rocking chair stood in one corner. He tried to imagine Mary sat there, her hair brushing forward as she swayed softly, yet the person he envisaged in the chair was not that of his wife, but of Lady Denver.

The pain returned, tenfold, and he was not prepared for it. The glass fell and shattered. He fancied he heard the cracking of his ribs as loud as rolling thunder, giant fingers of bone pried open, and his heart emerged to bleed anew.

* * *

**End**

* * *

_A/N: ... Someone is spiking my teacup with angst again._


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